


I Never

by ashesinyourhair



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff and Smut, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-11
Updated: 2013-04-11
Packaged: 2017-12-08 03:22:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/756436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashesinyourhair/pseuds/ashesinyourhair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Playing “I Never” with Cas may have been a bad idea, because Dean’s already got a pretty solid buzz going and Cas doesn’t even look tipsy, except he’s had this gleam in his eye for the last couple minutes that Dean suspects means trouble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Never

Playing “I Never” with Cas may have been a bad idea, because Dean’s already got a pretty solid buzz going and Cas doesn’t even look tipsy, except he’s had this gleam in his eye for the last couple minutes that Dean suspects means trouble. Cas is sitting on Dean’s bed, holding the same beer he opened an hour ago, and Dean’s on the floor surrounded by the records they’d gone through earlier when he’d decided to subject Cas to a crash course in classic rock. He sets down another empty, and he’s cracking open a fresh one and so isn’t looking at Cas when Cas says, in defiance of the relaxed grammar of the game, “I have never experienced an orgasm.”

Dean nearly gashes his palm open when his hand slips on the bottle cap, and he curses and flings the cap aside before meeting Cas’s eyes. “You serious?”

“I’m serious.”

“What the hell have you been doing in your room all this time?” Dean asks, and takes a drink. Technically he probably should’ve downed the whole bottle, but things are starting to get interesting.

“Reading,” Castiel answers. “Writing a little. Thinking. Sleeping. What have you been doing?”

“Sleeping, listening to records, and jacking off, mostly,” Dean says. “That’s the whole point of having your own room. You feel like you need to rub one out, you just lock the door and go for it. I mean, don’t you ever just want to?”

Castiel looks only mildly embarrassed. “It seemed… improper. This body belonged to someone else.”

“Yeah, well, I think it’s yours now,” Dean says. Jimmy got set free the first time Cas got himself smote, as Cas confirmed after that thing with Famine when he admitted to Dean that his vessel wasn’t to blame for the cheeseburgers, he was just unwilling to admit he was human enough for crap like hunger to affect him. Come to think of it, he’s still like that—it took Dean forever to convince him to just sleep, goddammit, everyone does it and you’re not gonna miss anything. Food was significantly less of a struggle, and a confirmation that the cheeseburger thing really was all Cas. But Dean hadn’t expected to have to talk Cas into getting off, especially not now that he was in possession of a full set of biological urges.

“In any case, it goes away after a while,” Cas says, but he doesn’t look at Dean when he says it.

“You don’t have to let it go away,” Dean says. “You can do something with it. It feels good. It’s a stress-reliever. I mean, I guess there’s probably something in the Bible that says it’s wrong, like every other awesome thing, but the way I see it, if God didn’t want you to touch it, he wouldn’t’ve put it within reach.” He takes another drink. “Like the thing with the apple,” he adds, and basks in his own metaphor, or simile, or whatthefuckever, while Cas frowns deeply.

The record ends, and Dean just grabs Zeppelin II and throws it on. The music lesson had been kind of a bust, since Cas had simply nodded and said something like “It’s very interesting” to every single thing, but maybe if he just keeps the good stuff on in the background it’ll work its way into Cas’s subconscious. And Zeppelin’s good for drowning out conversations you don’t want overheard, without killing the mood.

That’s kind of a weird thought. He blames the beer, and the subject, or something, and settles back down with his back against the shelf of records. Cas is staring down at his bottle.

“Okay, so, you know how to do it, right?” Dean asks.

Cas shoots him a look. “Yes, Dean, I’m aware of the mechanics. It’s hardly a specialized skill.”

“Hey, there’s skill,” Dean says. “Practice makes perfect, believe me.”

“I believe you.”

Robert Plant lets out a series of yelps, and Dean steals a glance at Cas, who shifts a little on the bed. Dean’s heart jackknifes, and he takes another drink. They sit in silence for a while, and Cas doesn’t look up from his bottle for the duration of the song. He starts picking at the label, and Dean watches, his throat oddly dry.

“Hey, Cas,” he says, as Plant sings the opening strains of “What Is and What Should Never Be”.

“We should…” Cas begins, and his voice comes out rougher than usual. A faint blush tinges his skin, and he swallows hard. “We should probably talk about something else,” he finishes. He’s still not looking at Dean.

Dean, however, can’t seem to stop looking at Cas. He’s sitting sort of hunched over himself, his fingertips playing up and down the neck of the bottle in a way that’s getting kind of distracting, and he keeps taking these nervous breaths and letting them out between his lips, and before Dean knows what he’s doing he’s standing up and moving over to the bed.

“Dean…” Cas says as Dean sits in front of him, and his cheeks are still flushed, and Dean can’t help but let his gaze trail down Cas’s body before darting back up to his eyes, which are a shade too wide now.

“Cas, why don’t you let me help you with that,” he says, and as soon as he hears his own words his heart starts hammering in his ears. He takes a steadying breath, doesn’t break eye contact until Cas’s lips part, as though he wants to say something, though no words come out. Dean leans in, closes his eyes, lets his lips brush dry and soft over Castiel’s. A quick breath is sucked past Dean’s lips, and then Cas is kissing him back, reaching up to run his fingers through the hair at the back of Dean’s neck. Dean shivers pleasantly, looks down to wrap his fingers around the beer bottle in Cas’s hand and tug it loose, set it on the bedside table. Cas lies back easy as Dean leans over him, stretches his body atop his, kissing him slow and deeper and inching his fingers under the edge of Cas’s shirt.

“Dean,” Cas says, breaking the kiss, and reaches down to catch Dean’s hand between them. He narrows his eyes a little. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m buzzed,” Dean says. “I know what I’m doing.”

He ducks his head and nuzzles under Cas’s jaw, kissing and nipping gently, and Cas sucks in a soft breath, but Cas says “Dean” again and tugs his face back up to look into his eyes, and Dean stops.

“You want to hold off?” Dean asks, trying not to let the disappointment creep into his voice. A twinge of an ache between his legs tells him he’s gonna get some more practice on his own tonight.

“Just for a little while,” Cas says. “Until I’m certain this is just you.”

He starts to protest that it is just him, but something in Cas’s eyes stops him. There’s a glimmer of that same confusion and fear he saw there when Cas realized he wasn’t in control of his own actions, when he came to his senses with Dean bruised and bloodied under his hands, and okay, if Cas has issues with consent and control because of that, Dean gets it. “Want me to get up?” he asks.

Cas grasps Dean’s hips and holds him firmly in place. “No, I don’t,” he says, and Dean doesn’t argue.

The song ends. For the next two tracks, they lie almost completely still and silent. Cas glances away from Dean, down or to the side, and back again, over and over, though as the minutes go on his eyes linger more on Dean’s. They murmur a little back and forth, about nothing important, and Dean figures it’s Cas’s way of judging how clear-headed he is, so he goes with it. When Cas’s hands start to move slowly up and down Dean’s sides, he just breathes slow and waits for the go-ahead.

“Okay,” Cas says, just as the record hisses into silence and the needle moves back to its rest.

“Okay,” Dean repeats, and nods to the record player. “Want me to flip the record first?”

“If you want.”

Dean figures the odds of Sam or Kevin wandering anywhere near his room for the rest of the evening are slim to none, especially considering the way Sam seems to make himself scarce lately anytime Dean and Cas are within ten feet of each other for more than thirty seconds, but he still goes and flicks the lock on the door, and nudges up the volume on the record player. He lifts off Zeppelin II, considers side B for a second, then thinks to hell with it and grabs Zeppelin III instead. Eyeing the grooves carefully, he places the needle ahead of track 4. A bluesy strain wails from the speakers, and Cas raises an eyebrow.

“Subtle,” he says as Dean straddles and leans over him, and Dean answers with a kiss. Cas can’t be that disinterested in music if he recognizes a sex song in three notes. This could be a workable situation.

This time Cas doesn’t stop him when Dean’s fingertips tease under the hem of his shirt, across his stomach and under the waistband of his jeans, and Dean kisses up the edge of Cas’s jaw as he pops the button and slides the zipper down. Cas gasps and his hips jerk when Dean wraps his fingers around his dick, and Dean reassures him with whispers in his ear and kisses that Cas eagerly returns. By about halfway through the next song, Cas is breathing heavily and pushing into Dean’s hand, and all it takes is a little murmured encouragement and a couple well-practiced moves to send him over the edge, and when Cas throws his head back and moans way too loud for the music to cover up, Dean can’t be bothered to give a damn.

“Fuck, Cas,” Dean says, more than a little breathless, his forehead resting against Cas’s. He’s still hard and it’s starting to hurt a little, and the front of his shirt is a mess, but he can’t manage to care about that either. Cas’s eyes are closed, and he’s still panting, though softer now, but he hasn’t said anything since the last time he moaned Dean’s name and it’s starting to make him a little anxious. “Feel better?” he tries after a minute, and waits for Cas to say something, anything. “Hey—”

Cas opens his eyes. He’s finally caught his breath, and his lips part. He glances toward the record player, just as the song ends, and says, “I have never used a Led Zeppelin album to seduce someone.”

“Son of a bitch,” Dean says, and as he reaches over for Cas’s still half-full beer, he glimpses Cas’s ridiculously smug smile.

**Author's Note:**

> [Cross-posted to tumblr.](http://asheswrites.tumblr.com/post/47654762331/i-never)
> 
> Once upon a time, when I was a teenager, my mother bought me the book [_Kiss My Tiara_ by Susan Jane Gilman.](http://www.kissmytiara.com/), presumably without looking at the summary, because when she figured out that it had not-so-nice things in it, she promptly took it away and hid it. Sometime before that (or, let’s be real, possibly after because she didn’t hide it very well), I read a bit that stuck with me, where the author quotes her grandmother as saying “If God hadn’t wanted us to touch ourselves, he would’ve made our arms shorter.”
> 
> So that’s where Dean’s line where he relates masturbation to the Garden of Eden story comes from. I thought I should let you know.
> 
> I’m sorry I made it even more blasphemous.
> 
> (I'm also sorry I'm an idiot and forgot to look up the source of that quote before posting the fic.)


End file.
